Sleeping at Last
by BarefootJourney
Summary: Sometimes minds are too broken to ever be put back together. Sometimes the pieces are missing, and eternally lost. Sometimes reaching out means falling off the precipice into an abyss. Sometimes a heartbeat is only a drum, rather than an indication of life, keeping time while you march toward your own demise. (I'm planning on going to some dark places with this. Rating will change)
1. Chapter 1

**A/N  
This is a Prologue of sorts, to my first intentionally long story. I have a general idea of where I'm heading with it, and hope to get at least 20-ish chapters before completion. There may be edits (I'm sorry, I'm a painter, and writing for me is kind of like doodling with words, and sometimes things have to be erased and shifted to make the bigger picture work. I have yet to touch base with a beta, but if anyone is interested in giving me some feedback on chapters before I post them, let me know, and I will send you so many good vibes and virtual hugs and I'd be gleefully grateful.)**

"You _can_ talk to me."

"For what purpose?"

"Sometimes it's beneficial to have someone who can listen, relate. Somewhere to lay down the burdens you carry alone. Take the weight off for a while."

"You like clichés, don't you?"

"And you like to be a smart ass, I reckon?" Bridget quipped right back, not missing a beat of the volley.

"If you respond with clichés, it's kind of hard to believe you're actually doing any sort of active listening. All you're really doing is picking up key words and blabbing out the corresponding phrase that will hopefully placate your client and make them feel falsely empowered. Do you have any idea how much time I've spent hearing that bullshit? How many times I was bounced around from fosters to group homes to overnights in a back alley? Know what they all say? 'This too, shall pass', 'you will be stronger because of this', 'something good is just around the corner', 'get it off your chest, you will feel better'."

Bridget took a good hard look at how she had been conducting her sessions with all clients over the past few years. Maybe she really had become what she, too, disliked and had vowed to never be. Maybe she really had started treating it as just a job to pay the bills. Maybe it was time to break that habit. … At least for Franky.

"I'm sorry. I think you're right and I'm sorry. I will have to change that. It's something I had promised myself, upon starting this career, that I wouldn't let happen. I want you to be able to talk to me so maybe we could share mutual understanding."

There. Bridget hoped her honest admission would cool the younger woman's simmering temper.

For a moment, she thought it was successful as brief confusion replaced the accusatory glare, but it wouldn't be so easy. Franky was too aware, too intuitive, too intelligent to be played that way.

And she let Bridget know it. The price for extracting painful memories of Franky's past was much higher than a little apology.

"As if you know my life? As if you can relate on any wildly imagined level? With a name like 'Westfall', I bet you grew up in a gated community of Richville, Surburbia, went to a fancy hand laid imported Italian stone school with ivy draping the walls and valet parking?"

"It's not -"

"It's not what I think? Not what it seems? Oh please, continue. This should be entertaining, watching you try to tell me how your privileged upbringing and expensive Uni degree gives you the slightest insight into my life and my head."

shaky breath "It's not ... 'Westfall'.. My name... was not Westfall."

A scoff of condescending disbelief from Franky. "Okay then, so you married rich. Got a sugar daddy or something? Arranged business marriage between two of the global elites to ensure pure wealthy blood carries on into the next generation?"

Franky was shredding Bridget's normally calm veneer.

"Never married."

"Adopted into a rich family?"

"No."

"Out with it then!"

"I've been fucking trying, Franky, but you're so bloody focused on the money and position I have now that you won't let me get my thoughts together!"

Franky holds her hands up in surrender, the mocking aura around her quickly dissipating at the reprimand.

"Alright. I'm sorry." Genuine apology replaced the former defensive criticism.

"I chose 'Westfall' when I was 19. Four years after I left home...Before that... Before... " she had to pause as the images of 'before' waged war inside her mind, forcing her to battle them back to their cages. "Webster."

"Sshhhit! Shrink's got shady secrets!"

Bridget faltered at the harsh words.

The psychologist's fallen features might as well have been a slap across Franky's face. "Fuck! I'm so sorry, I'm a complete cunt. It's the fucking teal talking."

"I grew up in a shitpot farming town. Everyone was either drunk or crazy."

"But I'm still failing to see how you could possibly relate to me. I'm a fucking murderer."

"So am I."

For the first time, Franky couldn't find words.

Bridget continued. "Or I would've been, if not for my shit aim. But I had every intention of killing. I pulled the trigger with the sole purpose of ending a life. I know how much it takes to shove an innocent person over that line and make them a killer. I know that moment when you want to just stop all of the horrible things an evil person is doing. To not have any options left. To save yourself and those you love from further harm. To avenge those who no longer have a voice... To be thrown right into fear based primal instinct. Kill or be killed. Fight to the death. I know what it is like to dread every new hour, wondering if this is the one where you die. If this is the one where you're caught off guard. If this is the one where you make a mistake and are unprepared for the consequences. What if this is the one where everything is taken from you and they win?

I know what it is like to trust absolutely no one. Because everyone else has their own hidden plans and you may just become another means to their end. Sometimes for a legitimate purpose, sometimes just for their own sick fun.

I know what it is like to lie awake at night and cry til dawn, confronted by all the atrocities I've witnessed or been a part of, the regrets, the faces, the screams, the wanting someone to just take my hand and promise me there is a way out, to tell me I've got a chance and things will be okay. To feel like there is hope to not be stuck in hell forever. That being a prisoner of my past wasn't a full life sentence. "

Bridget allowed the tears to accompany her story. Burning lines down her face, symbolising the now-invisible scars.

"I fucking know. I KNOW what it is like to let yourself feel alright for a fraction of a second. To stand up and rejoice on solid ground, for it to all disintegrate in the next moment. I know, Franky. I know what it's like to be plummeting toward certain demise, to have everything hurt, to be calling for help and everyone just walks past, like you're nothing more than a zoo animal. You're not their problem, so they don't have to care. You're not their family, so they don't have to carry the weight of you and your baggage. "

She paces, aimlessly, the agitated motion shaking loose more of her confession. Franky sits ramrod straight and still in the chair. The shift in dynamic lost on both of them.

"I know the absolute desolation and destruction that happens to your soul when person after person comes into your life, preaching and professing their help, you allow yourself to believe them and when they see what a trainwreck you really are, they see how broken your mind is, they blame you. They make you the bad person and they walk away. And it's as if you never existed to them. You gave them the power of trust and they used it to shatter what is left of you.

And you're left. On your knees, alone, surrounded by the charred remains of what could have been.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N  
First,  
Thank you to everyone who has taken the time to read, review, PM, and follow. The gratitude I feel is indescribable.  
Second,  
I am terribly sorry for the lack of updates. Before, it was just because I was trying to sort out where I was taking this story and how I want to get it there. Things started clicking into place and I was happily surrounded by an abundance of ideas, but then… life. My body has decided that its archenemy is itself, closely followed by any random thing that I may or may not come into contact with and continuous Benadryl is not conducive to coherent thoughts. Then my service dog started presenting with some worrisome symptoms and I'm floundering in my attempts to maintain an independent way of living and dreading the possibility of no longer having him at my side.  
This is short, probably riddled with mistakes, and I can't be certain it makes any sense.  
I have the next couple chapters outlined and I've got an endgame waiting on the shelf, but I can't guarantee the frequency of updates, as the sole focus of my hazy, muddled, diphenhydramine-laden mind, is my dog. **

**Disclaimer: I don't own them. Though, a dream come true would be visiting the writer's room to learn and observe, and possibly play a little.**

It had been nearly two years since that conversation took place.  
Bridget inhaled, allowing the air to fill her with the memory of how much relief and trust she felt in Franky's company.  
She hadn't spoken any more about her past since then, either.

Realisation firmly threaded guilt through her gut, weaving a tricky web of self scolding.

 _Nice, Bridget. Here you are reprimanding Franky for keeping things from you when you have an entire fucking cemetery, never mind a skeleton or 2, in every closet of your goddamn house. You tell her withholding information is the same as lying and yet, you don't bother to include the little warning of what demons from your past will do if ever they find you. You don't think it's important to tell her the truth of why you have no social life. Why you don't have photos of your family, why you never talk about them. It's because you can't get close to people without fearing the loss and you can't trust. It's because seeing your family makes you nauseous and sends you spiraling into an irrational panicked depression and dusts off old patterns of destruction. It's because there are no good memories without blindingly painful ones surrounding them. It's because the bad engulfs and swallows the good. Because the bad ones are autonomous entities and have the power to bring about your own personal apocalypse._

 _She accepted your answer of getting up to pee in the middle of the night as the reason for why you keep the lights on in the hallway, kitchen, and bathroom. She knew it wasn't the truth, but just loved you anyway.  
She said nothing of your collection of sedatives in the cabinet when they fell on her head in an awkward avalanche of orange plastic while she had been looking for tea._

 _And yet, here we are. I pushed too hard and wasn't paying attention. I invited her back to live with me and encouraged her to violate parole for my own selfish benefit. Then I scold her for lying._

 _Why am I even thinking about this? I've buried that part of my life. It's over. Like it never happened. I've healed._

Now she was lying to herself. Bullshitting, actually. She had graduated beyond remedial white lies.

Acid splashed her throat as she thought about the two words Ferguson had whispered earlier.  
She didn't question how the seemingly omnipotent former governor came to hold the knowledge of those words, her mind didn't allow it.

Instead, she was forced to use all conscious effort in a battle to remain in the present moment.

One more client, and the day would be over and she could go home.  
Bridget scoffed at herself, wondering what she had left that was even worth going home for.


	3. Chapter 3

Novak's name remained highlighted on the computer screen, the scheduled time ominous. 15 minutes.  
Fifteen entire empty minutes with nothing to do, nothing to occupy her traitorous mind and keep it in check. 

Leaning backward in the desk chair, Bridget's hands came up to cover her face, and she briefly entertained the image of pressing herself from the head, down to a puddle on the floor and dissolving into the carpet.

 _If only it were possible,_ she thought wistfully, secretly wishing the idea wasn't so ridiculous.  
With elbows to the ceiling and palms pressed against her face like a deranged octopus, the psychologist sighed loudly through her nose, the sound amplified by the obstructive appendages.

The self-imposed blindness was a reprieve from her current surroundings, but cruelly gave the event from earlier in the day a chance to yank her consciousness back to that moment.

 _Sinister-filled glee did a shadow dance in Ferguson's eyes as she prowled around the diminutive blonde._

 _"Ah, Bridget.. " She leans in, breath searing hot against the ear of her target, her voice lowers so only the intended will receive her message. The tremble of fear and disgust that rippled through the woman beside her meant the words had made the hit, despite the practiced impassivity of the psychologist's face.  
Joan reveled in it, breathing deeply the aura of apprehension, a new conquest now under way. _

This _, she thought to herself, nearly salivating at the delicious opportunity for destruction, this was going to be one of her more brilliantly satisfying endeavours. She vowed to savour every beautiful moment, starting with this tasty little morsel._

A forced intake of air extracted Bridget from the memory as she sat up straight, nearly ejecting herself from the seat.  
"Pull yourself the fuck together, Bridget," she muttered, glancing at the time, shaking and wringing her hands as if they were the vessels that held the unpleasant thoughts. 

Twelve minutes.  
She looked for something to do, but all available tasks seemed unimportant and required more brainpower than she was willing to expend.  
A breeze moved the branches outside to tap against the window, sunlight glinting off the leaves capturing her attention and providing a mesmerizing, anesthetic lull to overtaxed, scorched neurons. 


	4. Chapter 4

The petite woman in clothes that were far too confident and put together for the way she felt, stared out the window in front of her, ignoring the stack of reports that were waiting to be typed up.  
Most of them were overdue anyway, so why rush now?

Simultaneous with the ping of the computer announcing the start of an appointment, a knock on the door sounded, followed by the beep of a swipe card being accepted and granting access. An overture to the opening number.

"Allie Novak to see you, Ms. Westfall."

 _That's my cue. Showtime,_ the psychologist thought sarcastically.  
"Thank you, Ms. Miles, send her in."

With a tired falter in her step, that made it appear as if one leg were possibly shorter than the other, Bridget aimlessly ambled around her desk to greet her last client of the day.

The disheveled body that entered had an identical defeated and weary break in her gait, shuffled over to the nearest chair and unceremoniously flopped into it, greasy blonde hair falling into her face.

Allie briefly wondered if these were the same chairs from when she'd first visited the psych. Once annoyingly bright and cheery in colour, to the point where it had made her envisage dancing on them to bad 90s pop music….. the neon green was now a muted yellow-grey. Harsh. Dirty. The scrape on the arm rest was there though, she picked at it, fraying the exposed threads, so they had to be the same set.

Her eyes descended to the floor, the point where the desk's front leg sank into the ugly blue carpet, then it suddenly disappeared behind a human foot and black pants.

"Allie?"

"Hnnnghrmph?" , the young prisoner mumbled on the exhale of a sigh, letting her vision blur and smear together the objects she had been mindlessly studying.

"Hey? Allie!"

A fragmented staccato of observational images played like flash cards in Allie's zoned-out mind and she mentally called their associated names.

 _Ugly blue. Wood. To the left. Foot. Up. Black. Up up. Black black. More black. Flowy white. Necklace. Up. Face!_  
Her sight dimmed in hazy expansion before clearing and sharply snapping back to the face before her.  
She blinked.  
Terror and emptiness coursed through her as this face mirrored her own. Haunting torment swam in Bridget's eyes, thrashing in despair.  
Both women shrank back, not willing to admit recognition of their reflections.

"Hey." Allie replied, breaking the eye contact, before settling back to hopefully actually converse. She liked the psychologist. Ms. Westfall had always come across as soft and genuine with a hard, no nonsense, can-hold-her-own, edge. Maybe a bit stuffy on the surface, but always kind and…. Safe. Like she offered a rope to pull you to shore, or something you could at least hold onto after treading water for too many days. Yeah, 'safe' was a good word to describe her.

Bridget leaned against the corner of the desk, then gave up and crumpled into the empty seat beside the inmate.

"How are you doing since our last chat?" The older woman was uncharacteristically disinterested. 

"Probably about as well as you, from the looks of it."

Bridget became aware of her two week old chipped nail polish, the pants she had been wearing for the past three days, the feel of layered makeup as she hadn't bothered to properly wash her face in over a week, a brief thought to her shoes in the corner, hidden beneath her bag. She claimed she took them off because she was uncomfortable, but the truth is one was black, one was a glaringly opposite light blue. If she wasn't already at risk of losing her job over Franky, surely she would be sacked for not being able to put a matching pair of shoes on like a bumbling incompetent.

Allie's scan of Bridget revealed things at a much deeper level. She saw the exhaustion and the agony scrawled across every line, just as Bridget saw the yearning for death and disconnected consciousness in the former addict.

The psychologist tried to deflect. "I suppose I'm in need of some friendly woodland creatures to take over my personal grooming. If only life could be a Disney musical, yeah?"

"Please don't do the humour thing. I don't have the energy for it, and neither do you. It takes all I have to keep up the façade of being alright down there in the cell blocks. I want this to be the one place where everything is laid out, and if I'm to trust you enough to take off the armour for an hour, then you need to grant me the same courtesy. Please."

"Okay." To punctuate her agreement, Bridget let her folder and notebook crash to the floor along with half her professionalism, accompanied by immediate deflation of her strong and confident aura.  
She seemed even smaller without the accessories of her job. 


	5. Chapter 5

"Thank you." Allie held out her hand to the psychologist, unsure of what prompted the compulsion to do so, but went with it anyway.  
Her empty palm went cold waiting for contact, and she was just about to reel it in when Bridget followed the odd social cue and nodded.

"You're welcome. If you'd like to schedule additional appointments, please don't hesitate. Even on my days off, if you need to talk, you can have Ms. Bennett page me and I will come in, it's honestly no trouble at all, alright?"

The prisoner was already being collected by an officer at the door, but she looked over her shoulder and tried to muster up enough conviction to fill her response. "Sure thing."

With fuzzy awareness, Bridget went through the closing routine.

The session had been uneventful.  
They talked about the temperature of things among the inmates, a small update on Franky, but mostly she listened to stories about Bea.

Drawers locked, computer off, files sealed, the unfinished reports clamped under her arm.

Necessary belongings lazily packed in clear plastic hung from a bent elbow. She bid a good weekend to those managing the security checkpoint and strode through the gates toward freedom.

Halfway through the car park, a pebble that might as well have been a 9 inch torture spike stabbed through her heel, initiating a chain reaction that scattered the papers, and caused her to stumble forward, just barely managing to catch herself on the curb.

 _Hah! Freedom…_ she snarked, knowing going home wasn't really freedom. She still had her own mind to contend with. _Escaping one prison for another. Story of my fucking life._

She wished the story was fictional, but, no, it fit somewhere between horror, psychological thriller, and autobiography. Too fantastical to ever be believed, which is why she was condemned to either keep it contained or to be contained with it.

She lowered herself the few inches to the ground and turned, so she was sitting, forehead resting on her knees, hands limply crumpled on the asphalt.

A self deprecating chuckle at the irony of leaving her shoes in their hiding spot to avoid embarrassment, only to face plant in the car park temporarily covered the sound of a person trying to collect the papers before the breeze carried them away.

"Are you alright?"

Startled, Bridget shot up, but her blood pressure didn't get the memo and briefly, her vision dimmed, the world spun without her and she wobbled, static rushing in her ears.

A large hand caught her before another humiliating fall and when her body sorted out which direction it was pointing in, the owner of the hand straightened up, and took a step back, towering over her.

Tinted aviator glasses obscured the man's eyes. Motor bike helmet and leather jacket further protected his identity, but she knew she had never seen him around the prison before.

Unwilling to let the panicked terror show, she smoothed down her blouse and nodded. "Yes, thanks. Long week."

He held the stack, well, now messy cluster, of reclaimed papers and tried to shuffle them together, then glanced around, patting his jacket pockets, scanning the immediate area and finally making a quick decision, he reached for his belt.

 _The buckle bit first her cheek, then shoulder blade, then mercifully, through years of practice, she went numb, absorbing the destructive angry collisions of metal on skin._

"Are you sure you're okay?"

The man with the papers, now compressed and held together by brown leather, tethered against the increasing wind, seemed genuinely concerned.

The smell of wet musty wood and mildewed concrete faded from her senses as she reoriented herself with reality, disturbed by how unsettled she was, and how easily her composure could crumble.

"Yeah. I'm fine. Just tired." She gave a smile in hopes it would get him to shut up and leave her alone, then chided herself, remembering it was her mishap and apparent ineptness that caught his attention to begin with.

He offered her the strapped bundle of semi-tidied files. "Here you go."

"Oh! .. Uh, Thank you." She steadied her hands with a threatening glare, willing them to not succumb to the adrenaline rush of her little trip through time.

 _Be polite and gracious. Stop acting like an anxious squirrel trying to decide which side of the street to dash to. Be a fucking grown-ass adult._

"I haven't seen you here before. What brings you to these parts?"

"Fate."

Bridget turned her head away, the eyeroll could not be stopped. A slight twinge gripped her heart as she found herself listening for Franky's witty response and when all that hit her ears was another warning of the changing weather and reminder that no one stood beside her, that grip released and let the organ responsible for her painful feelings fall, plummeting toward certain obliteration. She braced. But the crash didn't come.

"Really?" Unable to keep the annoyance at herself, her situation, this guy, out of her tone.

"Nah, that's bullshit! Haha!" He thought he was comical. "Truth is my bike's brakes aren't working right and I've still got a ways to go. Not right to put others at risk, you know? So I've got a mate coming to pick me up and I'll bunk with him until everything is sorted."

"Do you want a ride any where?"

 _Jesus, Bridget. You've worked in corrections for how long and now you're asking this smooth talking tree of a man into your car. Apparently you were absent for the Stranger Danger lecture._

"No thanks. I'll stay with my bike. Though, if I did have to abandon it, what better place to be?"

"Right, then." Relief cascaded through her, accompanied by a rather unexpected flash of slight disappointment. "Well, good luck, stay safe, and thanks again for your kindness and help collecting my mess."

"Not a problem, Miss." His hand went up to his helmet where the brim of a hat would be and he bent forward in an awkward nod-bow combination.

Bridget let the grin pull at her lips as she briskly walked across the lot, appreciating the benign interaction, but just wanting the day to be over.

He straightened up and before turning toward where his bike was parked, he followed up with "Get some sleep. I'd recommend foregoing the wine tonight. Take it easy, and take care of yourself. Happy Friday!"

The last phrase muffled by another gust and Bridget searched the horizon for a visible sign of the forecasted storm, wondering if she would still have time to make her usual Friday stop.

Again, she found herself thinking that she was going home to Franky, that she'd have someone to share the story of her bad day with, someone to commiserate with and bitch to and take comfort in.

For the umpteenth time, reality slapped her and wrapped her mind in a maze of unbidden thoughts.

After winning the battle, once again, for some semblance of control over herself, an item that didn't belong in her car jumped into her peripheral vision and she became a mass of frenetic energy.

"Shit!" Ungracefully, she scrambled out of the vehicle and started running toward the kind man. "Hey! Here's your –."

The spot where he was supposed to be waiting was empty. Actually, the car park was devoid of all living activity.

She extended her senses, weeding through the wind, the leaves, traffic, birds, inmates' conversations in the yard just over the wall. She listened for breathing, footsteps, the crinkle and swish of his jacket.  
Eyes quickly picked apart and analysed every shadow for an indication of something amiss.

The bike that he claimed was his remained, but as she closed the distance between it and herself, there was no registration, no plates, no ID to be found.

' _I'll wait with my bike.'_ He had said.

Unease quickly resurfaced and she tossed the belt over the handlebars and fled for the false notion of security her car offered.


	6. Chapter 6

Right angles and clean lines gave way to rolling hills and gentle curves and with the change of scenery, the sharp turns and screeching stops of Bridget's mind began to follow the lead of the easy road.

The relentless cyclical thoughts and questions and hypothetical scenarios of who the man was and where he went and why he was there and what was going to happen next and thinking it was odd that neither of them introduced themselves and paranoia over his advantage of possibly knowing who she was and wondering if he could find her at home slowly dissipated as the front of her car lifted, beginning her ascent.

Pavement flowed into gravel and dirt, the loud crunch-grit-pop as jagged rubber pressed into roughened stone, masochistically satisfying to her ears. She didn't particularly like the noise and it did produce a slight internal cringe, but it also elicited the desire to hear more and an urge to lean on the steering wheel and wiggle the tires to increase the volume.

So she did. A smile and a shudder at the same time.

A swathe of red and black plaid over the passenger side seat swung into her sight as she rounded a bend.

Another reminder of Franky. The memories shuffled in reverse, from the last day Bridget wore it to the first time she saw it floating among uncertain long limbs and dark denim, completing the ensemble of daring and dangerous with a down-to-earth touch. The first time she touched it was their first kiss.

Vera had been kind enough to provide the information of Franky's scheduled release, and as far as anyone knew, the parolee would be taking a taxi to the bedsit. A rented car and a leather jacket were Bridget's meager disguise against the rumours and prying eyes, but seeing Franky's face as she became cognizant that her confessed dream was playing out in reality, was worth being caught … it would be an expression the psychologist would treasure for eternity, hope igniting and bursting to life.

 _So how did it all go so wrong? We were happy! Why couldn't she keep trusting me?_

Guiding the vehicle to a stop as she reached her destination, Bridget failed to pull herself from that day, the one Franky aptly named 'Freedom Friday'.

It was colder up here and with the rain approaching, the wind bit right through her blouse. Despite the tumultuous situation currently engulfing them, separating them, the soft flannel with starkly contrasting smooth white buttons still beckoned with promises of warmth and safety.

She'd never brought Franky to this spot. Never even told her what it was.

 _And she'd occasionally tease about my secret activity, but never pressed. She'd worry if I was gone longer than usual, but never demanded details. She trusted me. She loved me,_ Bridget thought as her arms slid through the sleeves, instantly providing a protective barrier to the nip in the air.

She ceased trying to control her mind as branches welcomed her with open arms, their flimsy green hands patting her back and shoulders in comfort.

 _Twelve._ She absently counted the stride, a duck to the left and under.

 _Dragon._ As the oddly shaped boulder came into view. Behind it, a small well worn path was trampled through dense brush.

A few more minutes and she found Her Spot.

The familiar curve of solid wood against her back balanced her descent to the ground.

"It's all fucked up…" She said to empty space, her thumb finding and fiddling with one of the buttons at the hem of the shirt. "I love her and I can't fix this."

"I don't know what to do! Please just tell me what to do! Give me something…. anything to hold on to except this…. fucking shirt." She begged the wilderness around her.

"Why won't she trust me?"

Darkening skies and darts of rain were her only tangible answers.

She let that first car ride play out in her memory again.

"So, what are you most looking forward to?" Bridget was trying to make small talk after the conversation had fallen to awkward silence on the way to where Franky was supposed to be staying. She had no one on the outside. Neither did the psychologist, but that was by choice, self-imposed isolation.

"A hot long shower in peace. Coffee out of a real ceramic cup. A full night of not hearing anyone else's toilet flush but my own."

Franky's unfiltered answers elicited a chuckle from the psychologist. "So the simpler things in life?"

"That's right. The fucking bare necessities, Mowgli."

"Mowgli?" Genuine confusion at the reference scribbled across her face.

"From _The Jungle Book_?"

Bridget shakes her head, inner corners of her eyebrows lifting in sad embarrassment.

"Educational movie nights are going to be a regular thing. Your attendance is mandatory. You must learn the language of Pop Culture Reference. I still can't believe you've never seen Princess Bride. That's just… That's – you know, it's damn near criminal." Franky teased lightly.

"Just as soon as I move out from under my rock, darling. What would your legal advice be for someone who has committed such heinous acts of non-participation?"

"There is a way for you to be let off with a warning if you can clear and reserve a block of time next Friday. At 7pm.? Casual pajama attire. Bring wine and an appetite."

"So, a date?"

"Pssh, no! Community Service, mate!"

"Can it be 7:30? I've got something I do on Fridays that's a little out of the way."

"Sure. But if you're late, I'll have to report you."

"Understood, Miss."

"You betchya."


End file.
